


The Last Pean: Match Made

by oviparous



Category: Arashi (Band)
Genre: Black Pean - Freeform, Crack Treated Seriously, Eventual Romance, First Dates, M/M, Nino/Nino, The Last Recipe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 18:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18429761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oviparous/pseuds/oviparous
Summary: A matchmaking endeavour results in Sasaki Mitsuru meeting Tokai Seishiro for dinner. Will sparks fly?Set more than ten years from the Last Recipe timeline into Mitsuru's future; some time after Tokai left Tojo University Hospital.





	1. Mitsuru

**Author's Note:**

> I used to write these 'Drama character played by Arashi member'/'Drama character played by same Arashi member' fics back in the day, and really wanted to try this one out as an experiment because I find Sasaki Mitsuru and Tokai Seishiro so similar. There's actually a lot more I want to write in this universe, so I hope you all like it. I feel like once you get over the Nino self-love aspect of it all, it actually can be a very sexy pairing. XD

  **Mitsuru**  

Mitsuru arrives six minutes early. He parks his car in Basement 1, waits for the lift that takes him up to the restaurant, makes his way to the reception desk in a series of purposeful strides, and gives his name with quiet composure. The receptionist takes his coat before a waitress shows him to his table, a lonely one beside the window, shielded from most neighbours by a tessellated divider.

The guy isn’t here yet.

Mitsuru is nervous as _hell_.

Mitsuru is the last person anyone would peg to be up for matchmaking pursuits, yet here he is, in Samejima Hotel Shinagawa’s Michelin-starred Gosuke, waiting for a man his best friend picked out from a catalogue.

It all started when Ken managed to coax a confession from Mitsuru that he’d prefer to be married to someone than not; Ken sprang into action as always. Mitsuru doesn’t share Ken’s enthusiasm, but he does welcome Ken’s efforts; for all that he is picky about his craft, Mitsuru isn’t fussy when it comes to men. He’s long accepted that he isn’t at all good with meeting new people, and Ken’s investment in this matchmaking thing has made him realise how much he welcomes the idea of not having to search for the right person himself. It takes a load off his mind to have someone willing to do all the legwork, and if everything works out he’d still end up marrying a decent guy.

Mitsuru isn’t being lazy. He’s being smart. And Ken is perfect for the job. There’s no one else who knows Mitsuru like Ken.

Mitsuru thinks that if it were possible, he’d like to marry Ken. Not _someone like Ken_ —he’d actually marry Ken. Marriage is, after all, a union of convenience. The romance part is overrated. And Ken is extremely convenient. They don’t need the romance; they’ve known each other their entire lives.

Unfortunately, Ken is straight and happily married, so Mitsuru doesn’t have that option.

Mitsuru looks at the entrance, his nerves wearing his patience thin. Tokai Seishiro is 12 years younger, exactly his height, and lives in Chiba: all qualities that make him hardly worth waiting for. But Ken was very proud of this find; he’d run across the kitchen after-hours waving the catalogue and yelling things from Tokai’s profile, claiming he was ‘the one’.

Mitsuru checks his watch and decides to give Tokai a while more, only because Ken would be such a nag if he finds out Mitsuru only gave his date two minutes to show up.


	2. Tokai

**Tokai**

Tokai is four minutes late. He doesn’t really care; he only agreed to this matchmaking thing because his mother said she’d already paid for the agency fees and he was feeling particularly charitable on her birthday. Besides, there’s free food. He doesn’t turn down free food—at the very respectable Gosuke, no less.

The lift doors part to the restaurant floor, and Tokai pulls out his phone to open the unread email from the matchmakers. He’s supposed to look for a ‘Sasaki’. Tokai goes up to the reception desk and asks for the name. The receptionist tells him they will show him to his seat in a moment and offers to take his down jacket. After Tokai hands it over, the receptionist radios for a colleague, who glides in from behind a screen and asks Tokai to follow him.

With the way they’re weaving past tables and potted trees, Tokai realises his table is probably in the far corner of the room. There’s a divider there, mosaicked with gaps, through which he can see someone waiting.

Tokai feels dread. He’s never thought about marriage, and when his mother pitched the ridiculous idea to him he outwardly celebrated the free meal and decided to come as (what was in his mind) a huge joke on her, but as he nears the table it’s all getting too real. He has no idea what he’s going to say to the guy. Maybe he should pretend to be sick and leave.

“Sir.” The waiter bows and gestures to Tokai’s seat, interrupting his thoughts of escape. It’s the seat on the inside, with its back against the wall. He’s literally cornered.

 _Fuck it_ , Tokai thinks, willing himself to be civil for the meal’s sake. He readies some semblance of a smile and turns to the man who’s already there.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” says Tokai, as the waiter waits for him to be seated before announcing he will be with them shortly, and excuses himself.

“I’m Sasaki Mitsuru,” says the man with a bow. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Tokai Seishiro. Pleased to meet you too.” Tokai notices that there’s something about Sasaki that seems familiar, though more in essence than appearance. He can’t quite place it.

“Thank you for meeting me here,” says Sasaki. “I hope it wasn’t too far for you.”

Truth be told, it was a bus ride and two train transfers away, but Tokai isn’t about to say that. “Not at all.”

Sasaki nods. They fall into an odd silence, both searching for something to say. Tokai wishes he read Sasaki’s profile. He knows nothing about the guy.

Sasaki clears his throat. “How should I address you?”

Tokai can’t answer this immediately: Sasaki sports a classic side parting that does nothing to age his boyish looks, and the suit he’s wearing seems perfectly fashionable. He could be anything from 28 to 45, giving Tokai no hint to which level of politeness he should default to.

“‘Tokai-san’ is fine,” says Tokai, opting for the most common answer.

“Tokai-san,” Sasaki tries, “have you been here before?”

 _Oh God,_ Tokai thinks. _This is so trivial._

“No,” says Tokai, and leaves it at that.

“They make a very good bread,” says Sasaki. “It’s a herb bread, and they pair it with their own butter.” 

“That’s… nice.” Tokai is mystified. Who comes to a Michelin-starred restaurant for the pre-meal bread?

They lapse into another silence, and Tokai tries to take his mind off it by looking around for their waiter.

“Tokai-san.”

“Hm?” Tokai turns to Sasaki, who’s looking very serious.

“Are you all right?” asks Sasaki, brow creasing, his question loaded.

There’s a palpable pause, and Tokai decides he’s had enough. “This is too awkward,” he holds up his hands in surrender, “so I’m just gonna confess: I didn’t read your profile. My mum arranged this. I know nothing about you, I’m not interested in marriage, and I’m here only because I like good food.” He meets Sasaki’s gaze. “And they said you’re buying, so.”

Sasaki looks stricken, but before he has the chance to respond, their waiter shows up with the bread.


	3. Mitsuru

**Mitsuru**

The waiter arrives with the bread and the wine list; Mitsuru is driving and Tokai says he isn’t drinking so they both don’t order alcohol. Mitsuru had been the one to make the reservation and had opted for the chef’s tasting menu, so that was one less thing to discuss at the table. The waiter smiles at them and starts taking them through their courses; Mitsuru hardly listens. He’s still trying to decide whether or not he’s offended.

In a sense, Mitsuru and Tokai are in similar situations: Tokai is here for his mother, Mitsuru is here for Ken. Neither of them are here because they’re hoping to pursue romance with the other.

Mitsuru realises he isn’t nervous anymore: there’s no pressure to impress or perform.

 _Fuck it,_ he thinks, and when the waiter leaves he looks Tokai in the eye and says:

“I can’t say I’m not interested in marriage, but at this point in time I certainly am not interested in you. Still,” Mitsuru gestures to the basket of bread between them, “I’m not going to deny you tonight’s treat. You really should try the bread.”

Tokai crooks his head, lowers his lids. “What are you playing at?”

Mitsuru chuckles. “I’m not playing at anything. You were honest with me, so I’m being honest with you. I didn’t pick you out from the catalogue; my best friend did. And frankly, it’s a lot more comforting to know you’re not here to look for a husband. God knows what I can offer you.” Mitsuru picks up a piece of bread. “Listen, if you’re not going to start, I will.”

Mitsuru butters the bread and starts to eat. It’s as delicious as he remembers, oregano and parsley balanced with a hint of coriander in the butter. He could make this himself, of course, but that’d take the fun out of visiting Gosuke and everywhere else he’s ever dined at.

When Mitsuru reaches for a second piece of bread, Tokai speaks. “You really like the bread, huh?” Tokai is still eyeing him warily.

“I really do.” Mitsuru nods. “Restaurant breads tend to be soft, but this one has a rather robust density.” 

“A 'robust density’?” Tokai laughs. “What are you, a food critic or something?”

Mitsuru smiles. “You know what? I’m going to butter this piece of bread for you, and you can take a minute to read up on me.”

Tokai seems more relaxed now, and he really does pull his phone out to open Mitsuru’s profile. Mitsuru has already started buttering the second piece of bread for Tokai when he turns his attention back to the table.

“Okay, first off—you’re forty-six?” Tokai squints, studying Mitsuru. “You don’t look forty-six. Obsessed with the anti-ageing treatments much?”

“You’re one to talk.” Mitsuru puts the bread on Tokai’s plate. “You don’t look thirty-four. And don't tell me you don't get told that.”

“Fair enough.” Tokai grins. “Says here you’re a chef and restaurant owner.” Tokai taps the screen of his phone.

“I am, yes.”

“Where’s your restaurant?”

“Akasaka.”

“Is it fancy?”

“Quite.”

“So you’re the head chef?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it called?”

“Suzuran.”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Would I be welcome there?”

“If you can get a reservation.”

“That’s no fun, I know the head chef.”

Mitsuru can’t help but laugh. “We’re booked up until April. It’s a small restaurant.”

“How about a meal in exchange for heart surgery?”

“I’d rather not have surgery at all, thanks. Please try the bread.”

Languidly, Tokai gives Mitsuru a smirk, leans forward, and picks the bread up from his plate. He doesn’t say anything as he eats, but Mitsuru can tell he’s keeping his face impassive on purpose.

“Comments?” asks Mitsuru, once Tokai has swallowed.

“It’s good,” says Tokai airily, before taking a second bite.

The atmosphere has definitely changed, now that they both know they’re just here to eat. Mitsuru figures the worst that could happen tonight is they part without becoming friends—he’s okay with that, he can tell Tokai isn’t the friend-making kind.

Tokai doesn’t say much between the bread and the amuse-bouche, but the silence isn’t awkward anymore. Mitsuru doesn’t even try to make small talk; he just watches Tokai quietly enjoying his pan-seared scallop with date jam.

It’s been a while since Mitsuru has gotten to watch someone eat, and it isn’t until now that he realises how much he misses it. While he’s working he does get to see the dining room through the large picture window that fringes the kitchen, but he’s continually tasting food, or training staff, or creating new recipes—he barely has time to watch his customers. To send a person on a gastronomic journey, allowing them to discover something new and tasty and excellent—that’s the reason why he cooks.

“What?” comes Tokai’s blunt inquiry when he sees Mitsuru gazing at him halfway through the soup course.

“You really do like good food,” murmurs Mitsuru, sounding more enamoured than he means to.

Tokai holds Mitsuru’s gaze for a brief moment, then grunts and faces his soup once more.

They make their way through the rest of the courses, finally finding themselves at the end with thyme-mango mocktails and a dark chocolate elderberry mousse. Tokai takes a sip of the mocktail and freezes, making a face, before sliding it over to Mitsuru. It makes Mitsuru laugh.

“You don’t like thyme?” asks Mitsuru, drawing the glass over the tablecloth to stand it beside his own.

“No idea if I like it or not, I’m just not a fan of this.” Tokai gestures to the offending drink, and downs some water. “Too bad. Everything was good up to this point.”

Feeling gracious, Mitsuru pushes his unfinished mousse to the centre of the table. “Here. Have more of this.”

“I’m not going to eat your leftovers.” Tokai cracks a small smile, the first real one of the evening.

“I’ve barely touched it, and you’ve finished yours so you obviously like it.” Mitsuru nudges the plate toward Tokai. “Call it a trade. For your mocktail.”

“If you insist,” says Tokai, finally pulling the plate close.

It is then time to get the bill, and Mitsuru treats Tokai as promised. Tokai intones a ‘thank you for the food’, coupling it with a perfunctory bow; Mitsuru rolls his shoulders forward and copies him for the ‘you’re welcome’, deepening his voice to match Tokai’s timbre, and it actually makes Tokai laugh.

They’re given their coats and head for the lift; Mitsuru then asks Tokai which storey he’s parked.

“I don’t drive,” answers Tokai. “Don’t own a car.”

Mitsuru is surprised. “You didn’t order alcohol—I assumed it was because you drove.”

“I don’t drink.” Tokai shrugs. “And I took the train here.”

The lift arrives, and they enter it. “Can I give you a ride back?” asks Mitsuru, hitting the button for ‘B1’.

Tokai gives a short, breathy laugh, as if to tell Mitsuru he’s being ridiculous. “Sasaki-san, I live in Togane.”

The lift doors shut. Mitsuru checks his watch. It’s almost 10 PM. “It’s in Chiba, right? Shouldn’t be too far.”

“It’s over an hour away. Closer to the Pacific Ocean than to Tokyo.”

Mitsuru shrugs. “I don’t mind if you don’t mind.”

Tokai falls silent for a moment. “Why are you being so gallant? I’ve told you tonight was just about the food.”

Mitsuru snorts. “Sure, everyone has an agenda when they’re being nice.”

Tokai rolls his eyes, but his lips are quirking. “Fine.”

They get to the basement level. Mitsuru locates his car, and as he beeps the doors open with his key Tokai lets out a low hum. “A Bentley, huh?”

Mitsuru doesn’t respond to that; he simply offers Tokai a smile and asks him to get in.

Mitsuru powers up the GPS and finds Kujukuri Medical Centre in the address book; he sets the system to navigate and they leave the carpark.

“What’s the name of that culinary school in Daikanyama?” asks Tokai suddenly. “The fancy French one?”

“Le Cordon Bleu?”

“Right.” Tokai twists in his seat to look at Mitsuru. “Did you go there?”

“No. Not every chef goes to Le Cordon Bleu. Why?”

“Nothing.” Tokai pauses. “I was just imagining how you ended up like this.” Tokai waves at Mitsuru with a limp wrist.

“Really?” Mitsuru grins. “What’s my story?”

“You’re the youngest son of some rich tycoon, your parents allowed you to choose whatever career path you wanted, they paid for your tuition at some famous culinary institute after you graduated from your boys-only private high school, and maybe a few years ago they gave you this Bentley because they’re using the Aston Martin more.”

Mitsuru bursts out laughing. “That’s specific.”

“Tell me I’m right.”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me how you ended up being a surgeon.”

“It’s your turn to guess, last time I checked.”

Mitsuru casts a sidelong glance, catching Tokai’s wry smile. “I think,” Mitsuru takes a deep breath, “either one or both of your parents are excellent surgeons and you got interested in their work early on, so you decided to give it a try and ended up really liking it. You worked really hard to get to where you are and now own everyone’s asses in the OR.”

Tokai clicks his tongue. “Close enough. Did my mum put that in my profile?”

“She didn’t.” Mitsuru leans against the steering wheel as he laughs. “It was just a lucky guess.”

“My dad was a surgeon,” says Tokai, looking out the window. “But he wasn’t excellent. Just normal.”

Mitsuru notes the past tense. He wonders if Tokai means his dad has retired, or that he lost his dad. Mitsuru’s no stranger to loss, but he doesn’t know what to say; he’s never helped anyone else deal with it.

“Hey,” says Tokai after a while. “You haven’t told me your story.”

Mitsuru checks the mirrors before switching lanes to get on the motorway. “Well, you’re completely off, except the part about the Bentley being a gift.”

“Huh.” Tokai folds his arms and studies Mitsuru for a long moment. “Don’t tell me you’re an escort?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Sugar daddy gives you capital for your restaurant, buys you tons of presents—”

“Stop,” Mitsuru laughs, “you’re killing me.” Mitsuru keeps his eyes on the road, wondering how much of his history he should share with Tokai. “I did have a benefactor, sort of. He left me his Bentley. Didn’t inherit the chauffeur, though.”

Tokai gives a quiet snort at Mitsuru’s joke.

The navigation system informs them that they will be driving straight on for the next 20 kilometres. Mitsuru reclines into his seat, keeping a hand on the wheel. He looks at Tokai, head turned towards the passenger side window, pensiveness captured in a reflection.

“My parents died when I was little,” says Mitsuru. Tokai turns to face him, his surprise evident. “I went to live at an institution when I was three. Met my best friend there, though we didn’t become best friends until junior high. As for high school, I didn’t go. I was supposed to, but my best friend and I ran away from the institution to work at an Italian restaurant downtown instead. Years later, I started Suzuran. That’s the short version.”

Mitsuru can hear Tokai taking a measured breath.

“That best friend’s the one you mentioned earlier? The one who, uh, picked me out?” asks Tokai.

“The same one.” Mitsuru grins. “He’s my sous chef.”

“I take it he’s not available to you?”

“He’s married with kids.”

“So you like him?”

Mitsuru has to think about this. “Having a crush on Ken was how I found out I was gay, so I must have liked him at some point. But when we got older he just became this… surrogate dad slash guardian angel figure. I want to say he’s like my brother, but I think he loves me more than a brother ever would.”

There’s a beat of silence. “I wonder what he sees in me,” muses Tokai out loud.

Mitsuru laughs. “I actually dread having to tell him I botched the date. He’s gonna want to hear details. I can’t make those up.”

“Whoever said you botched the date?” Tokai grins. “We had a lovely date.”

“Is that what you’re gonna tell your mum?”

“Of course. It’s her birthday.”

“You’re shady, huh?”

“That’s kind of like my brand.”

“What, you do shady things?” Mitsuru pretends to be appalled. “What kind of shady things happen in hospitals? Aren’t you afraid of getting sued?”

“Medical practitioners get sued all the time. We’re used to the fear.” Tokai stretches in his seat, yawning as he speaks. “And I’m not even half as shady as some of the people in management.”

“Well, I’m not going to pry. I’ve done shady things in hospitals myself.”

Tokai stills mid-stretch and faces Mitsuru. “You have my attention.”

“It wasn’t exactly shady, I didn’t break any laws…” Mitsuru is embarrassed, but he’s the one who’s gone and said it out loud. “This was a long time ago when my first restaurant failed. I was drowning in debt and needed cash quick, so I started a business, a kind of… Last Supper delivery.”

Mitsuru pauses. Tokai folds his arms, waits for the explanation to drop.

Mitsuru winces and confesses:

“People would hire me to cook something they wanted to eat, usually something memorable, before they died. And they'd pay me a lot to do it.”

Tokai frowns. “Wait, I’ve heard of this before. When I was working at the municipal hospital.”

“No way,” says Mitsuru firmly. “It was all very low-profile, and I never went to the public hospitals.”

“I had this senior who’d interned at a private hospital, and he told us all these bizarre rich people stories,” explains Tokai. “You cooked in their rooms, right? With a portable kitchen and everything?”

“…Oh my God. You’re not kidding.”

“You think you can bring portable kitchens into a private ward without the hospital getting notified first?” Tokai laughs. “The patients would have to request for permission, and word travels fast in hospital grapevines.” Tokai shakes his head. “So, what, you plied the private hospital circuit charging rich people obscene amounts of money for udon?”

“Usually the dishes were a lot more sophisticated than udon.”

“How much was it per meal?”

“A million.”

“Damn, you’re shady.”

“It wasn’t my finest hour.”

Tokai grins. “I would’ve asked for more, though.”

“Actually, this was like ten years ago; I bet there’s been some inflation since.”

“I’d ask for ten million,” says Tokai, suddenly sly. “That’s my current base rate, just so you know.”

There is a brief silence; Mitsuru marinates in his curiosity, which finally gets the better of him. “Dare I ask what for?” he asks.

“For saving a life, I guess you could call it.” Tokai drums his fingers on his thigh. “There are some incompetent, arrogant surgeons around who need their asses covered in the OR; I sort out their messes for a price.”

“...I’m actually scared of you right now.”

“You don’t have to be. You’re not a surgeon.”

The navigation system chimes; they’ve just entered Chiba Prefecture. Mitsuru switches to the middle lane to overtake a lorry. “What do you do with the money?”

“That’s a secret.”

Mitsuru glances at Tokai. “You don’t spend it on yourself; that far I can see.”

“How would you know?”

“Promise you won’t be offended?”

“I don’t promise, but go on.”

Mitsuru manoeuvres the car back to the first lane, buying himself some time. “Uniqlo jacket from five years ago, cheap suit, no watch, thousand yen haircut—need I go on?”

“So you’re _that_ kind of gay!” Tokai half-yells, sounding disgusted.

“Hey, no stereotyping.”

Tokai punches Mitsuru in the arm. “ _That’s_ for stereotyping.”

“I can’t believe you just socked me in the arm. What are you, five?” 

“I could’ve punched you harder, but I remembered you might have brittle bones.”

Mitsuru drops his jaw, aghast. “I’m not _that_ old.”

“I could punch you harder to prove your bones are fine?” Tokai doesn’t bother holding in his laugh.

“I don’t want you punching me at all, thanks.”

It’s a surprise for Mitsuru, finding out Tokai is actually someone he can joke with. A part of him wonders if there’s a chance they could be together, and his palms immediately get sweaty. He tries to push the thought away.

And promptly fails, because Tokai has angled his elbow against the window, rested his head against the back of his hand, and is grinning at Mitsuru in his awful, offhanded way.

Mitsuru feels like stopping the car just to kiss him.

Shit.

**Author's Note:**

> If we follow real-world timelines, Mitsuru is actually a lot older than Tokai because Last Recipe took place in the early 2000s while Black Pean aired in 2017, but I wanted to keep a minimal, yet reasonable number of years between them so that Mitsuru isn't old enough to be Tokai's dad: I played around with the timelines a little bit in that respect.


End file.
